


Hat Trick

by ghostyouknow



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Community: spnspringfling, Dark Magic, Hats, M/M, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostyouknow/pseuds/ghostyouknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha stroked the hat and felt it sing. It looked new, the same as the day he first put it on his head. A bicorn hat. Simple, stiff, proud, with a gold braid and button. He'd worn it the athwart style, like Napoleon, the day he'd tried it on and sealed his fate. He hadn't worn it since. He didn't need to.</p>
<p>The hat already had full use of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hat Trick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dedougal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/gifts).



> This was written for the 2013 spnspringfling.

Misha stroked the hat and felt it sing. It looked new, the same as the day he first put it on his head. A bicorn hat. Simple, stiff, proud, with a gold braid and button. He'd worn it the athwart style, like Napoleon, the day he'd tried it on and sealed his fate. He hadn't worn it since. He didn't need to.  
  
The hat already had full use of him.  
  
#  
  
Misha didn't know where he was. Well, he knew the obvious: he was in the hat shop, surrounded by hats to suit a variety of heads. Fedoras, gainsboroughs, sombreros, beanies. Those that weren't in vogue had either seen their heyday or been prepared in anticipation of a brighter, possibly more aquatic future. Misha had little say in their creation, even when it was his hands braiding straw rims and securing ribbons. The shop looked into a street, but it was a generic one. Misha saw SUVs and a Chipotle, so he guessed America.  
  
The shop didn't transport itself at random. Misha might sell more than a few hats while here, but there was one hat that was meant to leave, one head meant to wear it. Misha hadn't left the store since putting on the bicorn, so he didn't know whether the hats did good or ill once unleashed upon the public. He liked to think that his servitude was a price well-paid. He couldn't quite believe it.  
  
The bell above the door rang.  
  
Misha didn't look up. He was too busy putting together a wire frame—a skeleton hat, as it were. It had started out like a top hat, but was now calling for curling appendages.  
  
The hats whispered around him. They did that sometimes. Misha thought they sounded amused.  
  
“Misha!?”  
  
It took a moment for the voice, for his _name_ , to register. When it did, Misha shot out of his seat and stood facing the door. The sun was behind the window, reducing his newest customer to a silhouette. But it was a familiar one. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Long, long, limbs.  
  
Misha sagged against the counter. Hands dug into his upper arms, then hauled him up.  
  
“Misha!?” Jared said again. “Holy shit.”  
  
#  
  
A red-haired woman used to run the shop. She'd been kind enough to explain the way of things, something she claimed her predecessor hadn't done for her: _The shop moves. It doesn't stop. You can't stop it. You can't burn the inventory, or refuse to open the doors, or stop the hats from selling. You can't leave until the hat has chosen another. You'll know when it does. You can't kill yourself, either._  
  
Misha had cried, “No, please, stop, I don't understand—”  
  
She'd patted his arm and stepped into the sun, leaving Misha to the hats.  
  
He couldn't blame her. Misha didn't _wish_ his fate on anyone else, but it was the only way to get his own freedom. He'd look out the window, see weather, people, cars, birds—an endless stream of changing life. He didn't sleep or dream anymore. He only longed.  
  
#  
  
“I don't get it. Why'd you take off like that?” Jared pushed his fork into an iced monstrosity of a cinnamon bun, as the shop had apparently landed in a strip mall featuring what Jared called "the best bakey in Southern California." Misha was semi-grateful to know his general location, although he'd been consumed with worry the whole time Jared was purchasing pastries and black coffee. The shop usually stayed in one place for a couple of weeks, but there was no telling what it had in mind. The shop had moved to and from one cobblestoned street within a few hours; it had stayed in San Antonio for six months. That's where Misha had met Jared: his one bright spot in a rather dim decade.  
  
“I didn't have a choice.” Misha sipped some coffee. He didn't taste much anymore, but the warmth was nice.  
  
“I thought you were dead.” Jared looked haunted, right before he looked betrayed. He'd gotten older, but Misha didn't know how to measure time in sharper cheekbones and longer hair. “You told me you couldn't leave, that you were agoraphobic.”  
  
It sounded like the kind of thing Misha might say. “I had to say that. My handlers insisted.”  
  
“Are you making fun of me?” Jared stopped eating. “Misha, you disappeared. Your whole store disappeared. I asked around, but no one even _remembered_ you. I thought I was going nuts, or they were. I move halfway across the country and find you in some random strip mall? Have you been here this whole time?”  
  
“Not the whole time, no.” Misha wasn't sure he liked knowing that he lifted from most human memory, once he left a place. Of course, that left him with a new question: why did Jared remember?  
  
Jared's hunched. His hair flopped. Misha liked it. Then again, Misha had always liked everything about Jared, who'd bought a nice cloche for his sister's Halloween costume, only to start dropping by every other morning with coffee and flirtations.  
  
Misha had come to need him, want him. Hope that he'd be allowed to stay, even if he'd never see Jared outside the shop. He'd been devastated to sell one cowboy hat too many and find himself transported. There'd been a brief resurgence in attempted hat homicide, before Misha remembered that there was no use fighting.  
  
Misha reached for his hand. Jared's skin felt warm. “I wouldn't make fun of you. It's just that I'm cursed to run a hat shop until someone else takes my place.”  
  
Jared swallowed. “Don't joke. You owe me more than that. Two years, Misha. Jesus Christ. I thought you were _dead_.”  
  
Misha fought the urge to kiss Jared's palm. It had been two years. Jared was … he didn't know how old Jared was. But he could've met someone. Earned his Masters. Been to the moon and back. “I didn't want to leave.”  
  
“So you had to?” Jared searched Misha's face. “What, like you're in witness protection? Like you witnessed a murder or something?”  
  
Misha could only stare at him. He doubted 'witness protection' explained everything, but there was magic in this place, and it likely had something to do with the understanding dawning on Jared's face.  
  
Suddenly, Misha found himself enveloped. Jared didn't so much hug as swarm a person. “Oh my, God. Misha. I had no idea. I'm so sorry.”  
  
Misha buried his face in Jared's chest, needing to feel him. It had been two years, but it felt longer.  
  
“I guess this explains how you stay in business,” Jared said. “I mean, a hat shop? Really?”  
  
“Don't diss the hats where they can hear you.” Misha was only half-kidding, but Jared had no reason to hear anything but a joke. He laughed.  
  
Misha kissed him. They'd kissed before. Misha recalled liking it. The slow slide of lips and tongue, Jared's hair tangled in his fingers. His body hadn't felt entirely his own because it wasn't, but the sensation hadn't been too muted to be good.  
  
Jared pulled back. “It's been _years_ , Misha. We can't just pick up where we left off.”  
  
“I know. I just … I didn't want to leave when I did. I guess I always wondered how it would've gone.”  
  
“Me too.” Jared cupped Misha's jaw. “I really thought you were dead.”  
  
Misha kissed him again. Jared let him. Misha hoped it had nothing to do with the hats.  
  
#  
  
Misha stopped pacing back and forth in front of the bicorn, the better to glare at it. “What are you up to? All these years, and we've never met one person in two places. Don't try and tell me you're doing this to make me happy. I know you too well for that.”  
  
Light caught on the bicorn's gold button.  
  
Misha gave it a good _thwick_. It fell off, taking some braid with it.  
  
He stepped back in shock. Misha had tried to kill this hat before. He'd stabbed it, stomped it, set it on fire. He hadn't so much as scuffed its wool. To have the button come loose, just like that …  
  
 _You can't leave until the hat has chosen another. You'll know when it does._  
  
Misha hoped.  
  
#  
  
The seasons changed. Misha couldn't tell from his window, it being California, but Jared assured him that autumn had become winter. They'd fallen back into their old pattern too fast, but Misha was too relieved to care. The hat had intentions on someone. That more or less freed Misha to develop the same. He imagined sharing a home with Jared. Adopting dogs and holding potlucks. He couldn't wait to see how much the world had changed.  
  
Jared didn't question how witness protection meant that Misha couldn't leave a hat shop, much less one without a toilet or bed. He brought breakfast and coffee. They talked and kissed and petted one another without taking it further. Misha seemed incapable of blue balls in his current state, and he didn't want to fuck in front of the hats.  
  
He sold three: a bowler, a derby, and a glengarry with feather. No one so much as glanced at the bicorn, and Misha couldn't blame them, since it had gone woven and developed the beginnings of a pompom.  
  
“What the fuck is that?” Jared asked, when he caught a glimpse.  
  
Misha was relieved to see his disinterest. “A terrible mistake. One that has cost me dearly. Promise me you'll never touch it.”  
  
Jared rolled his eyes. “I think it's safe from me.”  
  
Misha kissed him tenderly, then dropped a hand to Jared's fly, since that was a sentiment worth celebrating.  
  
#  
  
A woman with dark hair came into the shop and wandered around, but her eyes kept flicking to the bicorn-no-longer. It was a winter hat now, complete with earflaps and tassels, its color a creamy fawn. Misha suspected vicuña.  
  
She left without trying it on, but Misha knew she'd be back. He sagged onto the chair behind the cash register. He didn't know what he'd tell the poor girl, once she'd doomed herself. He couldn't quit smiling.  
  
#  
  
The bell rang. Jared entered the shop with cinnamon roll and two cups of coffee. Misha met him at the door and started plastering him with kisses.  
  
“Whoa,” Jared grinned. “Someone's in a good mood.”  
  
“They're close. To catching the person.” Misha _vibrated_ as he spoke. His freedom had never felt so close.  
  
Jared walked to the cash register and set down his breakfast-for-two. “What's that mean, exactly?”  
  
“I'll be free to leave the premises. No more moving. No more _hats_.”  
  
“You don't like making hats? You're so good at it.” Jared looked around the shop. “Huh. This place looks almost exactly like the store in Texas. Even the rafters look the same. How'd you manage that?”  
  
“Magic.” Misha couldn't look away from Jared. He was stunning. Misha had known it an intellectual way. Now, he found himself entranced. The dip of his nose. The strength in his jaw. His kindness. Who else would have befriended someone who couldn't leave a store?  
  
Jared grinned and shook his head. “What did you do before hats, then? Or is that classified info?”  
  
Misha came up behind Jared, pressing him into counter. He reached around to swipe some cinnamon glaze, then licked his finger. He'd been able to register sweetness. Now, he could taste spice. “I want you.”  
  
Jared turned his head. His eyes widened. “You mean now?”  
  
“Yes. But also … after. When I can leave.”  
  
Jared smiled. “I want you after, too.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Definitely now.”  
  
There weren't too many hat-free spaces, but there was a narrow backroom filled with supplies. Misha shoved aside wires and shellacked gossamer. He piled silk on the hard floor. Jared wasn't creepy enough to carry lube, and Misha had no way of purchasing any. They spat into palms and rubbed against each other, Jared wrapping a hand around both their dicks as they writhed, grinning, like they were already free.  
  
Misha felt almost everything. Afterward, he collapsed on Jared's chest. For the first time in years, he slept.  
  
#  
  
Misha woke up alone and sore, the concrete floor digging into his right hip. He felt different, somehow. _Tingly_. “Jared?”  
  
“Out here.” Jared's voice strained.  
  
One glance revealed why: Jared leaned against the counter, the winter hat jammed over his hair. His cheeks were wet. “You weren't in witness protection, were you?”  
  
“No.” Misha looked out the window. Sunlight beamed. A sharp blue sky. He could no longer feel the hats, but he knew Jared sensed their pleasure in their new toy, their delight in visiting this last cruelty upon their old one. He knew they were laughing. They'd laughed at him, too, when he'd first been cursed.  
  
“Misha.” Jared said his name again, sounding broken. “I can't feel anything, and the hat—”  
  
He could do it. He could leave. _Live_. Misha wanted sunlight on his skin, wind in his hair, street meat on sticks. The hat would choose someone else eventually. Jared only needed to serve his time.  
  
“Did you do this to me?” Jared asked. “Did you …”  
  
Misha remembered hot coffee and warm company. Jared's fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, a tangible lifeline. He cared for Jared. Genuinely. That's why the hat had done this. It wanted to destroy him one last time before he left.  
  
Misha felt more awake than he'd been in years, and everything felt cold and hard and very clear.  
  
He approached Jared. Took both his hands. Words spilled from his mouth. He hadn't known he could recite them: “The shop moves. It doesn't stop. You can't stop it. You can't burn the inventory, or refuse to open the doors, or stop the hats from selling. You can't leave until the hat has chosen another. You'll know when it does.”  
  
Jared's mouth trembled. "How is this even real?”  
  
“You're cursed. I'm sorry. I didn't think it would be you.” He squeezed Jared's hands. If it had been anyone else, Misha would have skipped from the store with a song in his heart. He couldn't do that anymore. He couldn't let the shop continue on its merry, monstrous way.  
  
“You're cursed,” Misha said. “But I'm not. I can do what you can't. I can figure out how to break this thing, and I will Jared. I will free you. I'll take this whole thing down.”  
  
Misha couldn't feel the hats anymore. He didn't need to.  
  
He knew they were no longer laughing.  
  
 _Fin._

 


End file.
